


Angel of the Hard Sell

by Moontyger



Category: Hellblazer
Genre: Angels are Dicks, Flashbacks, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:58:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moontyger/pseuds/Moontyger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mucous Membrane picks up an unusual groupie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angel of the Hard Sell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreamsofstars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofstars/gifts).



“I heard you want a story.” John Constantine fell into the chair more than sat in it and the old wood creaked, but somehow he managed not to spill a drop of the drink in his hand, even though the glass was full – or was until he took a big gulp of it as soon as he sat down. He kept right on going after that; not for him such niceties as greetings or introductions. “Everybody does, these days. 'Tell us a story, John.' Always seeking a little piece of the past, just a tiny bit of someone else's life. Fragments of other people, to make up for the fact that you don't feel like enough on your own.”

He set the drink down with a thump, then fumbled in his infamous trenchcoat for a pack of Silk Cut. He lit one with a match from one of the free books at the bar and took a drag. “But tonight, you're in luck. I'm in a good mood. S'all right, here's your story.”

“It was 1977. A bit before your time- hell, sometimes it feels like a bit before all our times. Like another world, it was. Seemed like anything could still happen.” But it didn't seem so far off from here, or maybe that was just him: a refugee from a different world, one few truly saw and even fewer remembered. His hoarse voice, the smell of cigarettes and cheap booze, the noise of the crowd at the pub as the hour grew later – it was just this side of being there.

_March 1977_

In this packed club redolent with vinyl, smoke, and frustration, John Constantine and the rest of Mucous Membrane don't seem like anything particularly special. Constantine's voice is still hoarse, already roughened by years of smoking – or maybe just the screaming that passed for singing during their set.

They're all young, the whole lot of them, and it's clear that John is the leader even when they're offstage. He doesn't have the trenchcoat yet, or maybe he's just not wearing it. He's scarcely even wearing a shirt, just scraps of fabric held together with safety pins. His expression's different, too, though he probably doesn't realize it. The same cynicism as the older man, but right now, it's all pretense, faking a world-weariness he doesn't yet feel. 

It's not so surprising. Rage is the spirit of the times, certainly the spirit of punk: all the optimism of the sixties transformed by a world that didn't change fast enough. But there's a funny thing about anger: it doesn't mix with cynicism – that's too close to resignation. To be angry, you've got to have hope and right now, Mucous Membrane and their hangers-on are drowning in it.

Fresh from the stage, the band's covered in sweat, but they're laughing, pounding back drinks and clearly on top of the world. Only Chas, the big guy standing just behind John, seems a little distant, a little preoccupied. Maybe it's just that he's the roadie instead of in the band. Maybe this isn't his crowd; he's dressed a little conservatively for a place like this. He's trying, but he doesn't quite fit in.

Maybe that's why he's the first one to spot the angel.

* * *

“You're thinking I'm being metaphorical or maybe that I'm just full of shit. Maybe you're picturing some beautiful girl.” Constantine's voice cut across the image and he exhaled smoke in a long, steady stream. It was startling to see him again, to focus on the lined version of the younger face so recently glimpsed. “You should know better. That's all bollocks - angels are nothing like that at all.” He crushed out the remains of his cigarette and lit another, nodding to the bartender, who brought him a refill like there was an agreement between them.

* * *

The angel _is_ beautiful, but not in the way people often mean the term. Beauty implies attraction, even desire, but he's too cold for that, so distant that there's no wish to be any closer. He stands out so much that once you've seen him, you wonder how you missed him before. It's not just that he's dressed all wrong, in a suit that's not only obviously expensive and tailored expressly for him, but also somehow immaculate, despite the years of spilled drinks and smoke that permeate every surface such that no amount of scrubbing can completely remove their residue. He shines, like there's a spotlight just for him, but no one's crowding around seeking autographs. Instead, he's in a bubble of quiet space all his own, everyone giving him a wide berth.

Chas nudges John and nods in that direction. Once he's seen him, of course Constantine can't let that stand. He shoves away from the bar and saunters over, getting right up in the angel's personal space.

“Now there's a sight you don't see every day,” he says. “Never knew you blokes had taken up slumming.” Maybe he knows an angel when he sees one or maybe he's just pretending; he's already good enough at bravado that it's impossible to tell.

The angel looks down his nose at him and speaks in this very stern voice. “John Constantine. You are on the wrong path, but there is still time to change your course.” It's probably meant to sound foreboding, but he's got the wrong audience for that.

Constantine just smirks at him. “Why would I want to do that? You think I'm going to turn my back on all this just because you say so? 'No more, boys. I've seen the light'?”

“And why would you not?” The angel's voice is soft, but it manages to carry despite the noise of the crowd and the new band on stage. “Do you truly believe it can turn out well?”

It's a neat trick and it imbues his words with an ominous ring, but Constantine's having none of it. “Sod off,” he replies, though he sounds more cheerful than angry. “Go bother someone else. You're looking for an easy mark and that's sure as hell not me.”

“Yes. If you don't turn aside, Hell _is_ sure.” But Constantine's already walking away and neither the words nor the eyes practically burning a hole in his back make him look back.

* * *

“Of course that wasn't the end of it. Nothing's ever that easy.” He slid down in his chair, hooking another with a foot and dragging it closer, then using it as an impromptu footstool. “What I said was true. I just didn't think that maybe I wasn't the mark.”

Constantine laughed, a little bitterly. “I'm good at that: always forgetting it's not all about me.” He paused, staring into space, and his eyes were the same burning blue as the angel's.

“For the next sixth months, that angel wanker was at every show we did. Couldn't work out why at first; I never gave him the time of day after the first night. But then I noticed: he wasn't looking at me anymore. Not at any of the band. Every show, while we were up on stage, he was down there talking to Chas.”

John shook his head and got to his feet.”Quick trip to the bog,” he offered by way of explanation, but when he returned, he had a fresh drink in his hand.

“Course I couldn't let that stand,” he continued once he'd gotten himself settled back in his seat. “Chas wouldn't admit it, but he's a bit gullible when it comes to that sort of rot. Once I saw it, I had to do something. I wasn't about to let a mate of mine get mixed up with Heaven.”

_September 1977_

John's drunk, or doing a convincing imitation of it: unsteady on his feet and slurring his words a little as he confronts the angel. Maybe he needed the liquid courage or maybe it was the booze that gave him enough insight to see what was happening. “Don't think I don't see what you're doing.”

The angel doesn't stoop to a verbal reply, merely a look laden with so much contempt it's clear he's decided John isn't worth his effort.

Constantine, of course, takes that sort of thing in stride. “Look, mate,” he says, and the angel winces a little at the term, “I know what's in this for you. Souls for heaven and all that, another point in your endless little war. But what I want to know is: what's in it for him?” He jerks a thumb at Chas, who's looking deeply embarrassed to be involved in this conversation.

“Sorry about him. He's drunk; he doesn't know what he's saying.” Chas reaches for John's arm, but he steps aside just in time.

“Screw your apologies and listen. You think he's offering you such a good deal? Makes it sound real good, sure – all sweetness and light and reward in the next life, but there's nothing to it. You're better off with a demon: at least they _give_ you something for your soul.”

That's enough to force the angel to speak up. He's still looking at John like he was some mess he'd stepped in, but his voice is still soft, resonant and almost regal in a way Constantine's post-show squawking can't match. “And you, Constantine? What do you offer him?”

“A damn sight more than you do! A mate he can rely on, just for starters. Someone to drink with down at the boozer and a bit of excitement in his life when the old day-to-day gets too boring.” He pauses there, lighting a cigarette just as though he weren't fighting over his friend's soul with an emissary of Heaven.

The angel shakes his head. “Ephemera. Mere pleasures of the moment, part of this life that is all too brief. _I_ speak of eternity.”

Chas is looking deeply uncomfortable. It's probably the first time in his life he's ever had anyone fighting over him and he doesn't know how to handle it. But he's not the sort to stand idly by either, so he tries to smooth things over. “You've got this all wrong. He's not a bad sort – not John, nor -”

Before he can name the angel, that entity harrumphs, a scoffing sound that fits his expression better than his voice. “Not a bad sort? Him? You don't know the half of it.”

Constantine appears neither repentant nor insulted, but even as young as he is, he's probably heard it many times before. “From you, I'll take that as a compliment.” 

“He's on the road to Hell.”

John smirked, still smug and apparently unbothered by the prospect. “And I'll have a damn fine time getting there.”

Chas tries to speak again, but Constantine keeps talking. “You still haven't answered my question. You won't do power or money; no bribery for your souls. But what about help? You knew what was going on with him – his mum and that damn monkey of hers. Why didn't you do anything? Why leave me to clean up the mess?”

“Who says we didn't?”

But Constantine isn't having any of that and even Chas looks skeptical. “Pull the other one; it's got bells on.”

“You know we don't interfere. His mother was a sinner, but it was her choice to make.”

“Right. Her choice and meanwhile, he gets no choice at all.” John rolls his eyes. “Doesn't matter if they treat you like shit in this life. You'll get your reward once you're dead. That's great for you; you don't have to live it. Meanwhile, the two of us, we're still alive and I've got a girl to introduce him to.” He takes Chas's arm and leads him away. From the looks of it, Chas is too taken aback by what just happened to resist.

There really is a girl, too: dark-haired and wearing a skirt that barely covers her arse. She smiles at Chas, but she wrinkles her nose at Constantine once he's turned his back. “What's a man like you doing with someone like him?”

“You know,” Chas shrugs his broad shoulders and smiles back, but he still sounds a bit dazed. “It's like he says: he makes things more interesting.”

* * *

“These days, I'd do it a bit differently. Set things up, really make my point good and proper. Angels are so predictable; he'd never see it coming.” Constantine aimed for the ashtray, missed because it was mostly hidden in the forest of empty glasses covering most of the table, and used one of them instead. It wasn't the first time: a few others had solitary butts or a fine film of loose ashes floating in the dregs.

“Course, it wouldn't be so easy for either of us now, if it came to it. Chas is more stubborn than you'd think and he's only gotten more so with age.” John smirked and got to his feet with a bit of a shrug. “The way things turned out, maybe I should have listened, but I'm not the type. It'd never have lasted.” The words were resigned, but there was pride in them, too. It wasn't quite the same pride as the arrogance of the young man who wasn't afraid to argue with an angel, but it wasn't so far off as all that.

“There's your story, squire. Time I was off; my ride's here.”

Chas probably hadn't been there long, but he was standing just inside the door, squinting a little as he searched the pub for Constantine. He was older, of course, but immediately recognizable: his shoulders were still broad and his smile and the way he looked at John were just the same. If he regretted the choice he'd made, it didn't show at all.

It was only as they headed out, their voices too faint to be clearly heard over the street noise coming through the opened door, that you realized Constantine had stuck you with the tab.


End file.
